


Transition

by 12thofNever



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Male Slash, Morning After, Morning Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 17:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8543395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/12thofNever/pseuds/12thofNever
Summary: Just a short angsty story, set sometime right before the episode "Star One".Avon's narration upon waking up after his first night with Blake. Apparently, being happy is just not an option for him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another companion for my earlier story "Talisman".

    In the aftermath, I awoke to the stunned realization that I was still in his arms and he was holding me like a prize he had won. And then, remembering the circumstances that had put me here, I rolled my eyes and sighed as I wriggled under the vise of his heavy arm. It was tough going: even in his sleep he was unmovably resolute and I found myself to be his prisoner. He would deny this of course, but it was hard to argue with a snoring man who held you in a death-grip while he slept. A part of me resented this possessiveness of his and wanted to squirm away in revulsion. And yet...  
    I remained curled against him, not quite ready to leave my temporary haven. And worse, I was grateful to him, my head pressed against his bare chest as I listened to his peaceful, overconfident breathing and the beating of his big bleeding heart. This part of me wanted to live here forever, enfolded in his big (painfully) protective arms (that were also cutting off my circulation), imagining there was safety here.  
    I am usually a stranger to foolishness, so I won't deny the idiocy of these thoughts. But, as usual, it was my resentment that decided my course of action.  
    Sanity prevailed. My pragmatism overruled my id and it compelled me to gingerly slither out of his crushing embrace. I rose, shook the blood flow back into my arms and then stretched like a cat by the side of his bed. When I turned back to the languid form below me, I tilted my head in mild astonishment. I would never fathom how we had both managed to squeeze into this absurdly tiny bed last night-- it barely contained his lanky body now without the added bonus of my own slighter self having been entwined with him.  
     I sighed, not without regret.  
     I had never seen him before from this angle, so blissfully unconscious. Standing over him, I was mesmerized by his sleeping face as I studied the rare relaxation of the dark furrowed brows. I wanted to run gentle fingers over his parted lips.  
     I fixed this view to memory.  
     I continued to stand there still and impassive as a marble statue -- a silent, motionless sentry. If I believed in such things, I would have even said I had a premonition of something, but whether of doom or fortune, I knew not. It felt like it might have been hours, days or even eons that I passed at his bedside in a state of watchful fascination. And once more I denied that I loved him. I contemplated how I should ever go on from this point.  
    And I knew that what we had done must not go on, ever again.  
    I turned my back to him, padded across the room to use the facilities, cleanse myself; then I methodically searched about the floor for the pieces of clothing I had shed during our sudden, explosive exploration of one another in what had already seemed like a lifetime ago. I gathered up my tunic and my leather trousers and boots. I began to slide back into the trousers, hoping for a silent, gentle escape from the room before he awoke. I wanted no conversations; I wished to abscond from this unfortunate incident and back into the labyrinth of the _Liberator_ \-- which would soon become my ship if I played my game well.  
    "Avon."  
    His voice was husky and I became very still; my back remained to him. The sonorous tone of it was enough to make me close my eyes, longing for a return to the safety behind me, those secure arms shielding me from dark memories and new uncertainties. Because he knew my fears now, damn him.  
    I did not answer. I continued with my sartorial presentation, not wanting to talk about what we had done, not wanting to acknowledge the weakness I had revealed to him or my complete shame that I had ever allowed it to happen.  
    I heard the creak of the bed and heard his soft footsteps behind me. I let myself be encircled by arms from behind, but I was already turning to stone again.  
    "Don't transform back," Blake gently whispered into my hair, as he felt my body stiffen. "Please. Stay as you were. Wasn't it something momentous? Wasn't it worth it...? We learned things, you and I."  
     _You_ had learned things, not I, I wanted to snarl. I had gained no new knowledge of him during the act; but then again, Blake had been as he always was. Rather than concealing secrets and tragedies, his heart was wide open for all to see. And because of this he still somehow remained a complete mystery to me, more inscrutable than I ever was.  
    "Stay with me. I'll keep you safe," he insisted, giving an eerie voice to my earlier foolish thoughts.  
    I was reasonably skeptical of his offer. I gave a dismissive toss of my head, obstinate.  
    I still did not say anything at all. He nuzzled my neck, down to my shoulder; there were more kisses, his hands folding together around my abdomen, halting my transition to complete marble... except for an area of me down below, which he quickly found and took possession of in one big hand. I gave a gasp of reluctant pleasure. He was not _done_ with me yet, I cursed to myself. He was melting down the rest of me again into a molten malleable state that his talented sculptor's hands could transform into whatever he wished me to be. And I would accept his revisions because I was not only just his project now, I was also his new possession. Our act had joined us in some bizarre union, the sculptor and his sculpture, the rebel and his belligerent follower. We would always be together henceforth, even when we separated. My body betrayed my fury and defied the ranting of my logic. Writhing, I leaned back against him, my eyes closing, my throat arching. For now I would accept this. I began to sigh again under his hopeful, insistent caresses, the passes of his hands insuring his new creation-- _myself_ \-- was molded to his liking.  
    "Avon, talk to me," Blake murmured in his own gorgeous deep rumble. "I want to hear your voice. I love your voice. Say something."  
    He tried to get me to turn my head and look at him. Despite his ministrations and my continuous sighing, I kept my face turned away from him. I bared my teeth, grimacing with the effort to not meet his lips.  
    His voice was almost a growl now. He was frustrated with his work; his medium was not cooperating with him. "Was it really so terrible?"  
    I gave him what he wanted, my raspy answer: "It must _never_ happen again." The words caught in my throat and I cursed myself. I was descending back into a dangerous place where my survival instincts abandoned me. Rather than fleeing, I let him sculpt: he continued to knead me and shape me and re-create me. I was some new thing now that had not existed before, and even I did not know into what he had turned me. I let my creator make the finishing touches to his work, adjust me here, there, smooth his hands over my pliable surface... and then let me go.  
    The fact that he let me go surprised me. I felt the absence of him immediately as he stepped away from me, perhaps to survey his work from a distance. I dared not look back at him. Meticulously, I finished donning my tunic, pulled on my boots. I knew to turn to him, to glance over my shoulder and see him in his marvelous nakedness would undo all his artistry.  
    I walked to the door wordlessly, not caring if I heard him plead to me, or sigh in weary defeat. He had already done enough damage. I was irreparable at this point: he had transformed me forever.  
    I went to my own chamber and sat down at my desk and began a dispassionate assessment of the stolen schematics for a Federation trade ship. I had set about trying to break an encryption using an algorithm of my own invention. I had developed it before I had been imprisoned on the _London_ , and I had evolved it with the annoyed assistance of the computer Orac. It should have been calming. However, unlocking this ridiculously simple code began to bore me-- and I found myself distracted and staring into space. Then my breathing began to thicken and I swept all the papers off my desk in a small hurricane of fury.  
    " _Damn you_ ," I snarled. "Damn you, Blake." Angry sobs began to scrape from my throat. "Damn you for changing me. I hate you, you manipulative bastard. I hate you, I _despise_ you!" I realized I sounded like a child -- and perhaps, as a newly created entity, I was. My artist-lover has given me another identity, opened channels of emotion that had allowed the re-shaping process to alter my very being. But if I was to survive as this new thing, the clay needed to harden into a protective shell for the sculpture to truly be complete.  
    And so I began to learn what it was like to undergo transformation. He had won, regardless of what was to occur between us from now on.  
    I was his masterpiece.  
       


End file.
